


High School Never Ends

by WellTemperedClavier



Category: Daria - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, College, Gen, Nostalgia, Post-Canon, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellTemperedClavier/pseuds/WellTemperedClavier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burnt out on college, Daria returns to Lawndale and faces her biggest challenge yet: tutoring Kevin!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A touch of winter remained in the soft wind, new leaves and grass shivering in this reminder of the colder months. The wind blew through parks and over streets busy with the evening commute, mingling with smells of smog and oil.

Daria's only response was to tighten her jacket, the same faithful green coat she'd worn all through high school, now hanging a little looser on her frame. She'd found it right in her closet, a bit dusty but no worse for the wear. Slipping it back on had felt almost like renewal, at least until she reminded herself how much she used to hate her hometown.

_Better the devil you know. Besides, you didn't hate Lawndale so much as you detested it. Scorned it, even._

Daria paused in her thoughts, half-expecting a response. She shook her head and continued to put one booted foot in front of the other. Ten minutes later found her across the street from her intended destination, the big front building still in its familiar shade of off-yellow.

Daria frowned, not entirely sure what she'd expected. She considered going over and wandering through the campus, likely empty save for a few stragglers and custodians. Its teeming hallways, ironclad in lockers, stretched out again in her mind's eye, a hundred thoughts tied to each room. Bad thoughts, for the most part: recollections of meddlesome teachers, idiotic students, and other high school agonies.

_This is pathetic. If you're going to reminisce, at least do it for a place you actually liked._

She stood for a few minutes longer, the sun's last rays retreating past the horizon. Finally she turned and began retracing the steps to the Pizza King, a path forever imprinted on her mind. Electricity and neon lit up storefronts changed but little during her brief absence, the sights so familiar that she briefly imagined herself a high schooler once again. Only one missing element: the other pair of booted feet walking next to her own. 

Daria paused outside the front windows of the venerable Pizza King, favored hangout of Lawndale students since time immemorial, the smell of burnt cheese and spice hovering in a fog just outside the store. Her breath caught in her throat, anxiety prickling the back of her mind as she looked through the grimy windows to try and find familiar faces among the patrons.

_You really are delusional if you think anyone from outside of your class would even recognize you. No one's going to notice._

Still she stayed in place. A few of the five girls crowding the left corner table looked familiar though their names and faces escaped Daria. Relative anonymity proved perhaps the greatest benefit of having attended such a crowded school.

She finally pushed open the door and made absolutely sure to look at nothing beyond the grimy serving counter, its surface laminated by decades' worth of spilled grease. The smell hit her more than anything else, though objectively it differed little from similarly unremarkable pizzerias up in Boston. She slowed down for just a moment, suddenly lightheaded.

She hurried towards the counter and spoke in a rapid monotone as she ordered a slice of pepperoni and a large Coke, grateful that she didn't recognize the gangly teenager who took her order. Daria took her meal and sat at the nearest table once served. She kept her eyes on the surface, a white night sky decorated by constellations of pizza sauce stains.

_What exactly did you expect coming here?_

She again examined the parlor, her vision a hopeless blur above the rim of her glasses. Everything looked just the same except for the people.

_That's for the best. Last thing you want is everyone wondering why the brain is back._

"Hey, the brain is back!"

Daria yelped and nearly spilled her drink. She recognized him in an instant though it took a bit longer to react to this realization. Kevin Thompson stood before her, still in his football uniform and smiling with the same imbecilic confidence. 

"Oh. Um, hi, Kevin."

"Wow, I never expected to see you here. How's college—wait, don't tell me: it's spring break isn't it? Spring break!" he cheered, throwing his arms up in the air. "That's awesome, Daria." 

Daria decided to run with it. "Yeah, it is. I'm actually on my way to Fort Lauderdale."

"Really?" His eyes went wide, like a kid listening to a cool older sibling tell a story.

Daria decided to go along with it. "Uh huh. I've been practicing my binge drinking skills, and hope to put them to good use. So far, I can drain an entire keg in a single go. I'm the envy of my classmates." 

"College must be really fun. I guess that's where you brains go to have fun, huh?"

"It's where we unleash the partying instincts that we held in check all through high school. You wouldn't believe how wild it gets over there. How's college treating you?"

Kevin's smile drooped, his face reddening as he looked to the side. At once she remembered.

"Oh! Sorry. I forgot."

"Yeah," he sighed.

"Well, how's high school treating you?"

Kevin straightened up, as if suddenly conscious of an audience. "It's not bad. In a way, I'm kind of glad. The team really needs me." 

"So you were still quarterback last season?" That surprised her, though Principal Li wouldn't be above pulling some strings to keep her slowest student in the game.

"Um, well, you know I'm the best and all," he said, pointing to himself. "But I kinda wanted to give the other guys a shot, you know?"

"You stepped aside to let someone else take your role? That's surprisingly noble of you."

"It is? Oh, yeah, right. Brad's QB. I'm still really fast, so I was the running back. We had a good season. You know, 'cause I was on it."

Daria nodded, trying and failing to recall any football player by the name of Brad.

"I'm sure. Well, it was nice seeing you again."

"You too, Daria! Party hard down in Fort Lauderdale! I always knew you were wild and crazy deep down."

"You have no idea."

He waved and walked out the door. Daria wondered how she'd missed seeing him when first scanning the parlor—the guy didn't exactly blend in. She finished her meal in silence and zoned out over the next two hours, taking occasional sips from a drink made watery by melting ice, hearing snippets of long-past conversations.

She left the Pizza King just before 9:00. Stepping out into the night, she realized it had probably been unwise to stay out so late on her own. Not much happened in Lawndale, but you could never be sure. Even so she took her time going home, arriving when all of the windows save Quinn's were dark. Going through the door, she crept up the stairs on quiet feet, hoping she wouldn't be heard over the sound of Quinn's phone conversation.

Walking down the upstairs hall, she heard her sister's voice go silent, followed by the door to her room opening up.

"Hey, Daria. Um, are you okay? I was getting a little worried with you being out so late." 

"Oh, thanks. I'm fine. I just got a little sidetracked."

"Sidetracked doing what?"

"Seeing—" she'd been about to say friends, but realized that A) it wasn't true, and B) it wasn't a believable lie. "Seeing some of the old sights. I didn't mean to worry you." 

"Oh, well I wasn't really scared or anything. Good night."

"'Night," she replied.


	2. Chapter 2

Daria faded into Lawndale's background for the next several days. She spent mornings at the Alfred Joyce Kilmer Public Library. Once safe in the dust and packed shelves she'd take a stack of books from any given section and retreat to a table and leaf through the collection as the hours wore on. A few she'd read from cover to cover and others she'd abandon after a few chapters.

Some days she'd stay until closing. On others, she'd leave at noon and roam the town's commercial sectors to apply for entry-level jobs. Her parents insisted. A fruitless exercise, in all likelihood—in two months she'd be back at Raft for the summer session, for a toxic combination of collegiate stupidity and Boston at its most humid.

Still, she did as asked, handing out her scant resume to any store with a help wanted sign. Thoughts of yammering customers pressed down on her shoulders every time she stepped through the door. She barely heard her own sales pitch, a droning advertisement sent to nonplussed managers. They'd nod, take her resume, and promise to call her back.

A late Tuesday afternoon found her leaving 24 Hour Photo with a depleted resume folder. A crowd of high school boys headed towards her, barely constrained by the narrow sidewalk. Kevin walked at the very edge of the mob, still beaming his limp open-mouthed smile as the kids around him joked and laughed.

Daria ducked into the alley next to the store, not really wanting another awkward talk. She crossed her arms and waited for them to pass, and heard bits of what passed for conversation.

"… you're enough of a dumbass, Kevin, to flunk out two years in a row."

"Yeah, well, if I flunk out again that means I can be on the team again! I'm totally in it for you guys!" Daria winced at the desperate enthusiasm in Kevin's tone.

"No. Not even Li's going to be able to keep you on the team when you're a sixth-year high school student. You know why? 'Cause it's embarrassing. We're not brains, but none of us fails as much as you!"

"Yeah, why do you wear your uniform all year anyway? It's stupid," interjected a voice that Daria recognized as belonging to one of her sister's former suitors. Jeffy?

"Uh, 'cause I always wear my uniform?" Kevin said, yearning for approval.

They crossed the sidewalk right in front of the alleyway. Daria pressed herself further against the wall, and in so doing made the mistake of looking out at them. The sunlight reflected off her lenses and gave her away. Kevin's startled eyes met hers a moment later. 

"You could get away with it when you were QB, not anymore. Dude, why do you even hang out with us? The team's over for you!" Jeffy said.

"He's too dumb to figure it out. Come on, let's go. Not you, Kevin. You're not part of the team anymore." Daria didn't recognize the speaker, a shaggy-headed blond as wide as Kevin was tall. 

"Right, guys. Not part of the team. But I'll be there if you, uh, need me."

Kevin stood alone as the rest of the team passed him by, his face trapped in a hopeless attempt at a smile. She considered running out of the alley and down the street while he got his bearings.

"Hey, Daria," he said, on a voice that bordered near breaking.

"Um, hello again."

"I guess you heard all that."

_Should I lie? He'll probably believe me. Wait, I hesitated for too long._

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Aw, you know how teams are. We all make fun of each other. Builds team spirit," he said. "Actually, this year's really sucked. Nobody wants to hang out with me, nobody even cares that I'm really good at football anymore."

"I don't know what to tell you, other than to study hard so you don't have to do a sixth year."

"That's the thing! I've been studying. I'm doing a little bit better, but my grades are still really bad. No one's going to give me a bye this time either. If I don't pull up my grades soon, I'm stuck!" He sounded near tears.

"Is there anybody who can help you study? Do you still keep in touch with Mack? He's smart." She cringed at the thought. Mack had already endured Kevin for four years, and was probably glad to be free of him.

"I called him a few times, but he's really busy. Like I guess you'll be pretty soon. Oh yeah, how was Fort Lauderdale? Man, college must be a lot of fun!"

"Um, I was joking about that, Kevin. I didn't actually go. I'm taking a break from college," she admitted.

"Why? Weren't you going to a lot of parties? Did you get partied out? I guess that could happen if you didn't train up for it in high school."

Daria paused, wondering what she should say. "Kevin, do you remember that time I got brain fever?"

"Oh yeah, and you got all weird and blotchy. Eww!"

"It kind of came back. Anyway, I'll be okay, but the doctor said I should take it easy for a little while."

"So you'll be in town. Hey, maybe you could help me? You're like really smart! Unless it'll make your brain fever worse, or something," he said.

"Uh, thanks. I'm not really a trained teacher or anything though. I'm not sure if I'd be of much help."

"I can pay you!"

Daria glanced through the window at the side of 24 Hour Photo, where a customer bellowed at a flailing counter clerk. The man behind the counter wore a look of absolute panic.

"Twenty dollars an hour, and you have a deal."


	3. Chapter 3

"Tutoring Kevin Thompson?" Disbelief tinged Quinn's exclamation.

"It's a job," Daria said, still not sure if she'd made the right choice.

"That shows some real initiative, kiddo. Good for you!" Jake said.

Daria welcomed her father's automatic cheer, however thoughtless it might be. Gathered around the kitchen table over the age-old classic of reheated lasagna, both Helen and Quinn looked more doubtful. Jake offered a quick smile before hiding back behind the newspaper.

"I am glad that you're getting involved," Helen said. "But tutoring one student isn't going to be enough. You need to show something for the next few months."

"Tutoring Kevin is going to be, like, a full-time job. He's really not that smart," Quinn said.

"How exactly do you plan to help him, Daria?" Helen narrowed her eyes, taking on the same analytical look she wore in court.

"With a training montage that leads to him acing the exams in a test-taking scene scored by Journey."

"I'm serious."

"We'll probably just start with the basics. I've helped people with projects before. I'll just have to speak in a very… slow… voice."

"And that's exactly what worries me. I don't remember you having many kind words for the boy back when you were in high school. Is this just some elaborate joke at his expense?" 

"No! I'm going to try and help him." 

Helen blinked, and Daria realized she'd spoken louder than she intended. "All right, I trust you," Helen conceded. "However, you can't get by just tutoring one student."

"I know some people who might need help," Quinn offered. 

_Oh God, one of them is going to be Tiffany._

"Gee, thanks."

"If you'd rather work at a cash register…" 

"Huh. Thanks."

"You did fine when you taught English that one time. I mean, most of us were smarter than Kevin, but you got the idea across. You just need to put more of yourself into it, so you don't seem all mopey all the time!" Quinn's voice took on the authoritative tone that she usually reserved for discussing fashion.

_I only took that job to spite you, and then you have the nerve to be gracious about it._

"I'll see what I can do."

"And you'll see about tutoring some other people?" Helen said. "I think Quinn's idea is a good one.

"Sure." 

The family dispersed after dinner, Helen to her endless phone calls (which soon turned into a late-night office run) and Jake to his already-read papers. Quinn perched on the couch to watch models march the catwalk on TV. Daria found a strange comfort in the familiar sight. Even so, she noticed differences: Quinn's blue eyes more alert, narrowing when she saw a gown of particular interest. Sketched dresses, jackets, purses, and others paraded across the spiral-bound notebook open on her lap.

Daria rested her arms on the back of the couch and watched as her sister studied the screen. The camera closed in on a starved-looking blonde in a glittering blue dress who ushered in the commercial break with a smile and a wave.

"Yes, Daria?"

"Nothing. Just watching the TV."

"Are you really serious about doing this?" Quinn didn't look away from the screen as she spoke, her expression intent.

"I guess I'm committed now. You said other people also need help?" Daria shuddered to think of the cavalcade of idiots Quinn would likely toss her way.

"Well I haven't talked to Tiffany in a while, but I know she was struggling with a few things, and Rodney's having a hard time in math, but he's probably getting helped out by Jessica, that sort-of cute girl who might be valedictorian this year, oh yeah, and Joey's getting a low score in English and in econ, just like Brian, Shelley, and Reggie."

"Quinn, have you ever considered getting a job in the CIA?"

"You don't need to be in the in-crowd to know these kinds of things. I'm really over gossip anyway—that's the sort of thing sophomores do. People say things, and I hear them, that's all. Look, if you're really interested in this, I can let people know."

"Let me see how the first tutoring session goes. If I survive with my sanity intact, I'll let you know."

Daria retreated up to her room. Not bothering to turn on the light, she closed the door and sat down on the carpet, leaning against the cushioned wall and letting out a long breath as she let the night take her. Though in darkness she sensed everything in its place, a world ordered to her comfort.

She let her mind drift, and the hours rolled past in utter quiet. Daria once found inspiration in such free association. Since college, she'd found nothing. Vague fantasies tumbled through her mind, all made drab and brittle after a moment's scrutiny.

Daria finally took out her cell and speed-dialed her lifeline to sanity. The warbling ringtone sounded out a few times. Her heart stopped between the beeps and she held her breath. Then it clicked.

"Hey!"

"Hey, Jane." Relief flooded her, though she kept her voice steady. 

"How's everything back at the old homestead?"

"Took a turn from bad to stupid. Remember how my mom was on my case about getting a job?"

"Yeah."

"Said job turned out to be tutoring Kevin." 

Jane let out a low whistle on the other end. "Look on the bright side: the opportunities to torment him will be endless."

"Tormenting him would be redundant. He's turned into the school's biggest loser."

"How the mighty have fallen. Maybe it won't be so bad. At least you'll have some entertaining stories to tell."

"Not just about Kevin either. Now that I'm an educator, mom's pushing me to help the rest of the student body bring up their grades." Daria still hated the thought. At least it'd keep her out of some minimum wage retail joint.

"This is probably how Mr. DeMartino got started. You might want to practice getting your eyeballs to bulge. That really adds the extra touch that students crave in their frustrated teachers."

"Don't remind me."

"For what it's worth, I think you're up to it," Jane said.

"I don't even like these people."

"Yeah, but you've always done pretty well in spite of that. You can impose high standards and expectations on the little brats. High school kids don't need teachers who want to be their friends, they need actual teachers who'll get them in line. God, I sound old." Jane let out a little sigh.

"So I can be my remote, judgmental self while still contributing to society."

"Exactly!"

"That's something to look forward to. What about you? How's life at art school?" Daria remembered it going pretty well for Jane.

"Busier than I thought possible."

Jane went on to describe BFAC's constant flurry of activity, its caffeine-fueled late nights and last-minute projects, all done while she juggled a part-time job as a barista.

They talked for a bit over an hour before real life came calling.

"Hey, I should probably go. I need to do a little more work on my project before it goes into the kiln. There are still some distortions where it should be smooth. Oh, I might have time to come back down to Lawndale at the end of the month."

"Sure, that'd be good." _Great, actually._

"And listen, Daria: don't think twice about calling me if you need someone to talk to. I'll make time for you, no matter what."

"Um, right. Thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

_Earlier..._  

Just like she did in classes all through high school, middle school, and the educational institutions before that, Daria repeatedly checked the clock. Meanwhile, Professor Monroe boiled with excess energy as he stalked back and forth at the front, a leather jacket partially covering his ratty Che t-shirt. 

"I mean, let's be honest here. You don't want to read something that has a line like 'take what order thou wilt, both for the dead, and for all us who live', right? That's like high school Shakespeare drama. You guys are in the real world and have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of dead people. 

"Here's the thing. All this literature, stuff like _Antigone_? It's the ultimate attack on the man. Reading this, you learn how the powers that be work, and how they've been screwing people over for thousands of years. Thousands. Of. Years.

"That's why you're learning it. Forget all that crap about touching with the wisdom of the past. It's using the past, and any other weapon at your disposal, to challenge the authority of the day. A book is only good if it's useful, and _Antigone_ is still pretty damn useful even if it sounds stale."

"Excuse me?" Daria asked, raising her hand.

"Yes, uh, Daria." 

"Since you're the authority in the classroom, aren't you encouraging us to rebel against you? And by rebelling, wouldn't we be doing what you, on some level, want, thus undercutting the entire concept of rebellion?"

"I'm not your boss. Yeah, the system makes demands, and it sucks, but I'm here to help you become better informed so that you can make your own decisions and not let the man make them for you. I'm guessing you don't like reading Sophocles?" 

"Actually, I enjoy—"

Professor Monroe launched into his answer before she finished speaking. "'Cause that's okay. I'm very selective about these moldy literary selections since I don't like them much either. They can be useful, however. You know, a lot of the classics are just tools to make people think in certain ways. That's why all the old money schools—like Raft—love them so much. What we're trying to do though, is turn what they love against them. Once we do that with the classics, we can get to the stuff that's good."

He dismissed class with a wave of his hand. The students trudged out of the century-old lecture hall and into the chilly autumn air heavy with the smell of rotting leaves. Daria heard snatches of conversation around her.

"… I heard she's gonna be at Adam's party tonight, you should totally go!" 

"Professor Monroe's hilarious."

"My DoD clan's got a big match tonight. We'll be kicking ass."

"Man, I just don't get this old Greek stuff. I feel like it's in another language."

Daria went straight back to her dorm, unencumbered by any social obligations. Her footsteps echoed through the yellowing linoleum hallways. Reaching her room and finding her roommate, Patricia, mercifully absent, she shrugged off her backpack and placed it on her functional wooden desk.

_I could reread the second half of Antigone right now. Or I could just write the essay based on what I remember from reading it in 7th grade and again in 11th._

She decided not to study, and instead lay down on the narrow cot that served as her bed. A sliver of pale gray light shone through the window and against the floor. She let herself sink into the mattress, surprised at how tired she felt after such a trivial class.

_God, I wish Jane would hurry up and get to Boston._

She didn't stir until Patricia came back to the dorm room, her black hair perfectly coiffed and her clothes immaculate, as always. The clock read 8:17—Daria had been dozing for hours.

"Hi, Daria! Question: are you doing anything tonight?" Patricia's saccharine tone instantly revealed that she wanted something she was too lazy to do herself.

"Does it look like I am?"

"Yeah, I guess I didn't need to ask that," Patricia chirped. "Okay, so I got myself in kind of a situation. I have a paper due tomorrow for poli sci. Thing is, I also have to be at Tri-Delta party tonight. I don't have time for both."

"Then I guess you can't go to the party."

Patricia shook her head. "This is a networking opportunity I cannot miss. Can you write it for me? I'll pay. You're super-smart, so it shouldn't be a big deal for you."

"Flattery's just going to make me raise my rates."

"Will you lower them if I insult you or something, instead? I'm just trying to make this easy for both of us." Patricia's cheer gave way to a flinty, know-it-all pragmatism. 

"How much?"

"I'll give you thirty for it," Patricia offered.

"What's the subject of the paper?"

"I forget exactly, I'll put the prompt on my desk. Something to do with Federalist Paper No. 10."

Daria had read that back in 5th grade, and again in 11th. "A classic piece of political literature of immeasurable influence on our proud Republic. But hey, networking is important. I'll do it."

 _It's not like I haven't helped college students cheat before. Besides, if she's at a party that means she won't be here._  

"Thanks, you're the best! Here's the prompt." Patricia took a clear plastic folder out of her backpack, opened it up, and slid out a single piece of paper that she placed on Daria's desk. "Now I'll freshen up for the party."

She immediately set about improving perfection as Daria went out to grab some much-needed coffee. Patricia was long-gone when she returned, twenty minutes later.


	5. Chapter 5

Walking to the Thompson home took Daria near the old Lane household, all but abandoned ever since Trent's departure for the D.C. music scene. She suppressed an almost physical desire to visit the empty place, her mind recalling the scent of its dusty, lived-in rooms.

She found Kevin's residence with little trouble, an unremarkable pastel yellow home much like its neighbors. The Thompson family had remained something of a mystery to her though she knew that most of the money came from the parents of Charlene, Kevin's mother. Doug, his father, was by all accounts as stupid as his son.

_This is going to be painful._

Daria walked up to the front door and rang the bell. For a moment, silence, and the hope that she'd be able to walk home and get a job that required no human contact. 

No such luck. The door swung open to reveal a grinning Kevin. 

"Hey, Daria. Thanks for coming by," he said, as enthusiastic as ever.

"Sure. You have the money, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Here you go!" He reached into his pocket and fished out a crumpled twenty.

"Usually you give that at the end of the session."

"Then, uh, why did you ask for it?" he asked, with that laugh that was almost a giggle. 

"Just making sure. Hold on to it for now."

"Here, let's go to the cafeteria."

"Cafeteria?" Daria wondered if she'd heard right.

"You know, where you eat dinner?" 

"Right. That's  usually called a dining room when it comes to homes and other residential areas." She emphasized "dining room" the way she would to a child just learning how to speak.

"Wow, I'm learning a lot already!"

Already disheartened, she followed Kevin into a hall of football memorabilia. It took her a moment to even realize it was a dining room. A cloth made of patched-together NFL pennants covered the table. Framed pictures of famous players clad the wall with the density of a mosaic. Photos of Kevin struggled to make themselves seen amidst the stars: Kevin raising the football at the game that broke Oakwood's dreams of championship in 2000, Kevin holding up a trophy, Kevin posing with a decidedly unenthusiastic Mack, and baby Kevin with a football in the crib.

"Wow."

"Pretty cool, huh?"

The dining room sought to overwhelm the senses, like a bewildering high baroque church devoted to the gridiron. Daria sat down at the head of the table, not able to look away from a photo of Barry Sanders that glared at her from across the room. Still smiling, Kevin sat to her left.

"Where do you want to start exactly?" Daria asked.

"I'm taking a lot of remodeling classes," he said.

"Remodeling?"

"You know! Classes that are, uh, remodeled 'cause not everyone's a brain."

Daria took a deep breath. "I think you mean remedial." 

"Yeah, remedialing! Anyway, I've been hitting the books pretty hard. I can be kind of a brain too, now that I'm usually free on Friday nights. English I think I get. O'Neill says I'm doing better than ever!"

"Well if he thinks so…" 

"And woodshop isn't that tough, once you remember the safety rules. Math and history are pretty tough."

"Okay. Which one do you want to cover today?" she asked.

"Huh, that's a good question," Kevin said, his expression suddenly distant. "I remember one time I couldn't figure out if I should pass to Mack or to Robert. So I passed the ball to Joey instead, and he grabbed it! We beat Cumberland High, 16-15."

Daria fought to keep from rolling her eyes. "That's great. But you didn't answer my question."

"Oh yeah! I dunno, you can pick."

_This is even worse than I thought._

"All right. What—exactly—are you studying in history?"

"Remodding history—" 

"Remedial!" she corrected. 

"Right, remedium. We're studying the American Revolution."

"Okay. Have you covered the causes of the revolution? Like the Townshend Acts?"

"Maybe? It's hard to remember this stuff, Daria. Mr. D did talk about some battles, where we had to see their eyes or something."

"The whites of their eyes. So you're up to Bunker Hill."

Daria closed her own eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as she realized the sheer scale of this project. He didn't know anything.

 _How to even begin?_  

"Hey, Kevin," came a new, gruffer voice, "what are you doing—wow, she's a real step down from Brittany." 

The speaker, a paunchy middle-aged man in a gray tracksuit and whose comb-over all but admitted abject surrender to male pattern baldness, stepped in from the kitchen, arms folded and face stern. Momentarily at a loss for words, Daria stayed silent as Kevin interjected.

"Oh, hey dad! This is Daria. I hired her to make me smarter."

"Make you smarter? Lady, have you seen my son play? The NFL's going to snap him up like that!" Doug snapped for emphasis.

"Yeah, I know, dad! But she's gonna help me get into college football!"

"The colleges are going to be all over you. I hired a professional editor this time to put your videos together. Once they see it, they won't give a damn about your grades."

"Really? Cool! But maybe I should get better grades, just in case," Kevin said, taking on a conciliatory tone.

"I don't really care. Just make sure you keep practicing for when college season starts. They're not going to want you to memorize the presidents or anything."

Doug turned to the nearest photo-encrusted wall, eyes wide as if to soak in all of the accumulated glory. "Hey, look at this one here. This is where Kevin led the Lions to victory against Swedeville, 20-5! You think a guy like him's gonna need to know this stuff?"

"Yeah, Daria, that was a great game," Kevin said. "You saw that one, right? That's where I ran up to this guy who was like, twice as big as me—and I'm pretty big—and still knocked him down. You have that one taped, right dad? Daria, do you want to watch it?"

Doug started to go on about Kevin's past triumphs, his suddenly crisp and rumbling enunciation giving each game the quality of an epic. Daria leaned towards Kevin. 

"Look, do you want me to help you, or do you just want to watch old football videos?" she asked.

"I do kind of want to watch the Swedeville game—" 

"Then have fun being Lawndale High's first sixth year student!"

She grabbed her notebooks and pushed back the chair to leave. Only Kevin's look of sheer panic stopped her.

"Wait! I don't want that. People don't think I'm cool anymore, and they'll think I'm even less cool if I have to repeat another year. I'll study, I promise."

Daria considered it as Doug continued to relive past victories.

"I think there are too many distractions here. If we're going to study, it should be at my house. I won't charge you for the time we wasted here either—we had interference," she said.

"Ha ha, yeah, my dad used to get in trouble for pass interferences back when he played. See, you do know football!"

"Right. Just drive me back to my place."


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey, do you guys still have the Pigskin Channel?" Kevin asked as he walked past the grandiose TV in the Morgendorffer living room.

_I've made a huge mistake._

"Remember how we watched it that one time when Ms. Barch had us making that maze?" he continued.

"Actually, you watched it while I built the maze." The memory triggered a brief but involuntary scowl.

"Right! That was fun."

Daria turned to face Kevin. 

"Are you serious about this? So far, all I've heard is you talk about football. You're already good at football. You're paying me money to become at least passable in other subjects."

"Sure! I haven't forgotten. I'm all business from here on out!" 

Kevin gave what she guessed was his game face and she went ahead to the kitchen, figuring that the dining table made a serviceable study area.

"So you don't have the Pigskin Channel anymore?" 

Daria slammed her fist down on the table with more force than she'd planned, the loud smack echoing through the house. 

"You know what? We do. Just give me the $20 and you can watch it for an hour. Maybe that's better for both of us."

"But what about the—oh, right. I can't watch. Sorry. Um, just tell me when I get off-track again. Coach used to shout at me," he offered.

"I'm not really much of a shouter."

"You could hit the table again!"

"I'm not sure the table can take much more of that."

Kevin sat down and smiled like a puppy expecting a treat. Daria again glanced at the clock.

"Okay, tutoring officially begins now. What exactly does Mr. DeMartino expect you to know? Does he just want a list of battles?"

"Um, I think that's on there. Yeah, battles. And something about stories."

"Tories?"

"I'm pretty sure he said stories." 

"If it's the American Revolution he probably meant Tories. The Tories were American colonists who wanted to remain loyal to the king. There were several reasons for this: some thought it was their duty to stay loyal, some benefitted from the king's rule, and some just didn't want to rock the boat." 

Kevin's smile faded, and his eyes roved around the kitchen as if he hoped to find a refrigerator magnet with the answer. His face scrunched up and he turned in his seat to look back at the living room and its television set.

"You know, Daria, sometimes it helps me think if I—wait, no. No football right now. Just history."

"Yeah." She took a deep breath, trying to hold back from saying something really cruel.

_Kevin doesn't need another year of high school, he needs another year of elementary!_

Beads of sweat started collecting on his forehead, his expression going from nervous to sheer panic as he stole another backwards glance. Kevin's right hand clutched at the air as if trying to grab a nonexistent football.

_This is pathetic. I'm basically cheating him._

"Are you having some trouble concentrating?" she asked.

"I think so. It's just all this stuff, you know, is so boring! Like, unless you're a brain!" he added quickly, holding up his hands as if to mollify her. "I mean, who else cares what happened a thousand years ago?" 

"You should care, unless you want to spend another year in high school." 

"Yeah. What was the question again? I forgot." 

Daria covered her face with her right palm, hoping he didn't see her gritting her teeth.

_Not like he ever knows when someone's tired of his stupidity. I should just tell him the deal's off—no tutoring, no money. Just wait here until the summer session where I can go and waste more of my finite time on this Earth with the idiots at Raft._

"How about this. If studying down here is too distracting, we can go up to my sister's room. I'm sure you'll find that the pink walls, Lisa Frank merchandise, and posters of shirtless teen heartthrobs will help you focus."

A bone-deep shudder worked its way through Kevin. "That's okay! I'll try to study here, I promise. Study, Kevin, study!"

"Good. Now, I'll outline the history of the American Revolution…"


	7. Chapter 7

Kevin left the Morgendorffer house a few hours later, his recently accumulated knowledge probably dribbling out of his ears. Daria threw herself on the couch, exhausted and wanting very badly to kick somebody. Getting through to him was like digging through solid rock. At least she had $40 to show for it. 

She had to admit that he'd at least made an attempt. He stopped asking about the Pigskin Channel and only mentioned football a few more times after her threat. His efforts still came to nothing. Kevin evinced no recollection, understanding, or even basic awareness.

Still, $20 an hour made just about anything tolerable.

 _All I can do is present the material. If he doesn't take to it? Too bad. God, we haven't even started on math yet. That's going to be excruciating._  

She zoned out on the couch, not even needing the assistance of television. Sunlight made its slow retreat to dusk and then turned to night. The day's annoyances faded away as she let her mind go from one vague memory to another, all the more welcome for their distance from her present state. 

The sound of keys at the front door pulled Daria back to wakefulness. She grunted when the lights switched on, flinching at the brightness.

"Daria?" 

"Hey, Quinn," she mumbled, blinking.

"Are you okay?" 

"Why wouldn't I be? Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't need to get all defensive on me! I was just expressing some sisterly concern," Quinn said, with mock indignation.

"Yeah, thanks." 

"How did the tutoring go?"

"I kept from throttling him. Barely," Daria admitted.

"You are such an angry person, Daria! Maybe you shouldn't tutor anyone else."

"Hey, I'll tutor anyone for the right amount of cash." Her stomach twisted at the words.

"If you really hate it that much, you should probably do something else."

"If that something else consists of vegetating in a dark room, I'm in."

Inactivity proved the theme of the weekend. Daria fled to the library on Saturday, rereading all of _The Last Unicorn_ and parts of _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. She stayed until closing, at which point she escaped to Barnes  & Noble where she waited out the rest of the evening. 

Sunday proved trickier. She dodged her mother's urging to get some kind of a job and reached the nearby park where she planted herself on a bench with _The Decameron_. She alternately read and dozed until the light grew too dim and she trudged back home.

On Monday, she realized that she needed to change tactics. As a young girl she could burn through entire months in near-total solitude but such behavior no longer sufficed. However much she distracted herself she knew that Raft still waited, hungry for three more years of her life.

Daria typed up an advertisement, quick and to the point, and walked over to the high school. She arrived fifteen minutes after the end of 6th period. Crowds of students milled about the campus, engaged in gossip, flirtation, mockery and all the other honored methods of wasting time. Though she didn't recognize most of the faces they still fell into the same patterns. The sheer volume of familiar sensations made the past few years come to life all around her.

She shook her head. Finding the bulletin board in the main hall, she grabbed a spare thumbtack and pinned her ad in the corner. Daria took a step back and saw how forlorn it looked, her simple black print on white paper competing against flyers splashed with odd fonts and eye-searing colors. She relocated it closer to the center after a bit of thought. Quinn's word of mouth would probably be more helpful, but this at least represented a start.

Doubt began its immediate assault on her short-lived optimism. She really didn't like dealing with high school kids, or teaching those unwilling to learn.

"Daria Morgendorffer?" 

She yelped at the sound of her name and spun around to find herself staring up at the cadaverous visage of Mr. Anthony DeMartino, his right eye already quivering in its socket.

"It IS you! But what the HELL are you DOING back here? ESPECIALLY after making a CLEAN escape."

"Hi, Mr. DeMartino. There was some, uh, family trouble and I had to withdraw from Raft for a semester."

His face softened (or at least made the attempt). 

"I AM sorry to hear that. Are your parents in good health? Quinn never mentioned anything."

"It was extended family. They're getting better. How about you?"

"I'm still damned to teach the ENTITLED IMBECILES that infest this SCHOOL! A fate WORTHY of Dante, wouldn't you say?" 

"Hmm, in spite of Ms. Li's best efforts I'd say that Lawndale's constant tangle of chaos makes it more akin to Milton's Pandemonium. The Inferno was a bit too specific and well-ordered to be Lawndale High." 

"HA! That's why I actually LIKED teaching you. Your SISTER is doing QUITE WELL, by the way. INTELLIGENCE runs in your family."

"She can be pretty smart when she wants to be. I understand you're still teaching Kevin."

He let out a strangled cry, slamming his head against the bulletin board with enough force to worry Daria.

"I thought myself FREE of him, but he CONTINUES to TORTURE ME! I've tried EVERYTHING to reach him, Daria. It's a lost cause. MAYBE if he'd gotten help earlier, but they KEPT PASSING HIM!" 

"He hired me as his tutor last week."

"TUTOR? Why would you DO that to yourself?"

"Because he's paying me $20 an hour. Any tips?" 

"It's HOPELESS! I keep GIVING him the MATERIALS and HE keeps IGNORING them! Good luck. YOU'RE going to NEED it!"

A bit taken aback by her old teacher's fury, Daria again considered her plan. Most students wouldn't be as tough to reach. As for Kevin, all she could really do was try, even if that amounted to tilting at windmills.

_The problem is that nothing outside of his immediate world means anything to him. No matter how much someone tells him about a subject, it still ends up being too abstract. Unless I want to end up tearing my hair out in frustration, I'm going to have to reach him in some way._

Daria made her way back home, and pondered the issue late into the night.


	8. Chapter 8

_Earlier…_

Not having any classes on Tuesday freed Daria to sequester herself in her dorm, wrapped in blankets and with the heater turned to full blast against the Boston winter. She drifted to a waking state over the course of hours before getting out of bed a bit past noon, throwing on a coat and taking a seat at her computer. She spent the day cycling through routine websites and half-reading the their contents.

_I should probably get something to eat._

She instead satisfied herself with a few handfuls of stale crackers kept in her desk. Daria lay back down after turning off her computer, and again wondered why she felt so weary despite having done nothing. Two lectures and a discussion course waited for her the next day, but she'd finished all the prep work over the weekend. Only waiting remained.

Patricia returned at half past four clad in bright winter wear, the thick jackets and scarves arranged in absolute precision.

"Wow, it is cold outside!"

"Which is why I'm inside," Daria replied.

"You didn't know it snowed last night?"

"We've had snow for a while now."

"Yeah, but we got new snowfall last night. It's fresh, so enjoy before it gets all slushy."

Daria didn't respond. Patricia took off her jacket and turned on her computer. Daria shifted on her bed so that she faced the wall, wanting to sleep but finally realizing she actually felt pretty hungry.

_If I go get dinner now I won't have to deal with as many idiots down in the commissary._

She lay there for a while longer. 

"Hey, Daria, I'm going out for some pizza. You should come too," Patricia said.

"Why?"

"I'd like to get to know the girl who's been writing my essays a bit better."

"Personally, I think cash speaks louder than words." Spending time with Patricia amounted to torture.

"It'll just take an hour of your time." Patricia's voice took on a familiar no-nonsense tone that denied even the possibility of argument. 

"Fine, but don't think this makes us friends."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

Throwing on her heaviest coat and covering her disheveled hair in a thick flannel cap, Daria prepared to brave the wintry Boston wilds. She gasped when the full force of the cold hit her upon stepping outside. Patricia led the way, her movements light and swift. 

Drifts of snow covered the campus, the mounds still bright against the darkening sky. The city lit up around them, even Tuesday night bringing out carousers and nighttime shoppers. They finally stopped at a faux-dingy pizzeria, Reynaldo's Italian in red letters against the yellow canvas awning. 

Eight round glass-topped tables competed for space in the brick-floored parlor, most already occupied by students who watched the basketball game shown on the large television glaring down from an upper corner. The two of them ordered at the counter and took seats at the nearest table.

"Now that the first semester's almost done, what do you think of Raft?" Patricia asked. 

"It beats high school."

"Tell me about it! It's kind of scary though, huh. Like, we're adults now." 

"And like an adult, you find people to do your dirty work for you." 

Patricia's eyes narrowed for just a moment before her face returned to its normal state of cheerful calm.

"Why do you get so mad about this?" she asked.

"I'm not mad. I took your money, didn't I? What annoys me is you trying to be my friend all of a sudden."

"You looked kind of lonesome. Meeting new people is a big part of college, you know? Making friends is how you get jobs that don't suck once you graduate." Patricia sounded as certain of herself as ever. 

"Nice to know you'll be part of the old boys' club." Daria wanted her words to sting. Patricia stayed calm.

"Come on, work with me. You're obviously really smart. That's why I wanted to get help from you. We're not hurting anybody—these are just stupid assignments. Didn't you ever do homework for a friend during high school?"

"No." _Quinn's family, not a friend. And I didn't even like those Middleton students_.

"It's not like anyone will care about how well we did in our classes in a few years. No one's life depends on me knowing about classes I only take for breadth."

"What the hell's your point, Patricia?" 

"Just that, maybe, you could be getting more from college than you are. You've really helped me this semester, and I want to return the favor. I can help you meet people, maybe even get a boyfriend. You just seem really sad all the time."

"If I'm sad it's because I have to share class with dimwits and cheaters." 

"You have to make the most of it. You can spend four years at a school you hate and graduate with a lot of smarts and nothing to show for it, or you have fun and graduate with a lot of opportunities. People cheat, in school and in the real world. The professors don't care. You obviously don't care."

"You're right. I don't care." Daria stood up and stared straight at Patricia. "And I don't like you. The reason I do your homework for you is because the more time you spend drinking yourself stupid at keggers is less time you spend with me. The money's just a bonus."

Patricia was silent for a moment, her face not betraying any emotion. Finally she shrugged. 

"That's okay if you don't want to write my papers. I'm not going to get mad. I know some other people who can do it for me."

"Then go bother them."

Daria's initial seething joy curdled into disappointment as she stalked out of the restaurant. Telling off a roommate would probably have repercussions, but it didn't really matter. On the rare occasions that Patricia returned to the dorm from networking, Daria could just pretend to be asleep. 

Burying herself beneath the blankets came as a welcome thought on such a cold winter night as she began walking to what passed for a home.


	9. Chapter 9

The advertisement combined with Quinn's efforts eventually netted Daria a grand total of two new clients: Joey and someone named Sebastian.

"Are you sure Joey's actually interested in learning? Or is he just doing this since he thinks it'll earn him a date with you?" Daria asked. Boredom led her to try and get under Quinn's skin, the way she used to.

"For your information, Daria, Joey's been happily dating Emma for three months now. A lot has changed since you left." 

Kevin remained the focus of her efforts. When working on lesson plans she tried to clear her mind of his breezy stupidity and indifference, the unearned esteem he'd enjoyed all through high school. After all, he was more than paying the price.

Instead, she viewed him as a puzzle to be solved. At no point did high school or even college pose much in the way of intellectual challenge to Daria. Kevin's thickness gave her the chance to prove she could think her way through just about anything. Where the teachers of Lawndale High had failed (an admittedly low bar) she would succeed.

The first few lessons established that Kevin only understood the real and the concrete. Abstraction meant nothing to him. With history, she'd have to use examples from his own life. 

She thought of this as she guided him to the dining room table one drizzly Friday afternoon toward the end of April. 

"Um, so Daria, I have tests next week. Do you think I'm ready for them?" 

She sat down before answering. "I suppose that depends on the tests. You're still having trouble grasping the basics."

"Which ones are the basics again?"

"For math, that would be division and multiplication. For history, the facts about the American Revolution. Maybe we should meet twice a week and devote a day to each subject." She spoke the last sentence without even intending to, eyes momentarily widening at the thought of enduring more time with him.

 _It's more money._  

"Yeah, I guess that works," he said.

"Let's start with the history. Do you know exactly what's going to be on this test?"

He looked unsure. "I think it's about why the revolution happened."

"You think?" 

"I'm pretty sure. It's one of those tests where you have to write a thing? Like, two pages?" His face scrunched up as he searched for the right term.

"Right, an essay test. Okay, so think back to your own life," she said.

"Sure!" 

"What was a time where your parents wouldn't let you do something that you wanted to do? Something that you thought you'd earned the right to do?"

"Hmm. You know, I don't think that's ever happened to me, Daria. I was a pretty good kid, growing up," he said, a note of satisfaction in his tone. 

"Sure. What about Coach Gibson? He must have been pretty tough on you guys."

"Oh yeah, Gibson could really be hard! Let's see—oh, the 2000 game against Renson High! You remember the one, I got three touchdowns!"

"It's etched into my memory." _And he probably believes that_.

"Wasn't that cool? Yeah, so anyway I was feeling pretty good about myself. Britt was feeling pretty good about me too, if you know what I mean," he chuckled. "I wanted to take the guys partying, but Gibson said we couldn't party until the season was over! I was like, come on, we did a great job! We earned a break. We were the ones out on the field—coach doesn't get to decide everything for us!"

"What happened?" 

"Party at my place! Coach got mad when he found out, but there wasn't anything he could do about it," Kevin boasted.

"The American Revolution was a bit like that. In a way."

"Wait, so the Americans also beat Renson at football? That's really cool!"

"Not quite like that. You knew that you and your team had done a great job. You worked hard, played hard, and won the game. But after all this, your coach just keeps riding you to do more, even though you're already the best team in the area. 

"The early American colonists were in a similar situation. They worked hard, paid their taxes, and when the king needed them to help fight in wars, they did their part. Do you remember studying the French and Indian War?" she asked.

"No." 

"You probably don't need to know much about it—"

"Whew!"

"—other than that it was a war between Britain and France. The American colonies saw a lot of fighting, and the colonists held their own. They figured that they deserved to be respected for their efforts. Instead, Britain kept making them pay higher taxes. The Americans didn't think it was fair for them to be taxed without getting some say."

Kevin scratched his head, clearly mulling over her words. "Wait, I'm still a little confused. This was about football?"

"No. How did you feel when Coach Gibson said you couldn't party?"

"Mad!"

"Right. That's how the Americans felt. They'd done their job, and they wanted to make sure that they got the respect they deserved. Instead, Parliament—well, Britain—kept making them pay taxes. The Americans didn't have any way to get them to lower or stop those taxes. Here, I'll write this out for you."

She took a piece of paper and wrote down the parallels between the American Revolution and Kevin's frustration. Part of her cringed at such trivialization and oversimplification, but saw no other way around it.

Is Like

Lawndale Team - The American Colonies

Coach Gibson - Great Britain

The 2000 Renson Game - The French and Indian War

No Parties - Unfair Taxes

Partying Anyway - Revolution!

She pushed it over to his side of the table. He examined it for a little while. Daria studied his face, looking for any spark of comprehension.

"Okay, I think I get it. Americans wanted to party, and the British wouldn't let them!" he said.

_Would bringing up the Boston Tea Party at this stage help him, or confuse him?_

"It was more about taxes than partying."

"Hey, the Revolution was when George Washington was in charge, right?"

"He was the military leader of the colonists." 

"And I was the QB! So if the Lawndale Lions were like the Americans, that means I was like George Washington!"

"Yes," she said, after a brief silence. "Just like George Washington."


	10. Chapter 10

Though she'd only seen it once before, Daria immediately recognized the battered Toyota Camry as it huffed and wheezed next to the curb outside of her house late on the first Friday of May. She turned from the window and walked downstairs, an uncharacteristic quickness in her step.

Opening the front door she saw Jane already stepping out of the car, her narrow shoulders drooping under the weight of overstuffed canvas bags.

"Hey. Do you need some help?" Some part of her wanted to run towards Jane, the mere sight of her a relief after the long months.

"Wow, you're going out to greet your guests now? What did they do to you in that college?"

"Mostly they taught me stuff I already knew. They charge more for the trouble though, so you know it's worth it," Daria said as she took one of the bags.

"Thanks for letting me stay here," Jane said. "I don't know if Casa Lane is still habitable or not. I should probably check on that tomorrow. God knows Trent never will."

"I'll be sure to bring all the appropriate spelunking gear." 

Months of frustration evaporated the moment Jane stepped inside the door, her presence dispelling all the dreads of Raft University, the world again light and familiar with no obstacles worse than idiot teachers or irritating younger sisters.

"It's like I never left!" Jane said as she surveying the living room. No witty response came to Daria's mind, still surprised at her own relief. 

"Hey, Jane! Is that you?" Jake stepped out of the garage, a big smile on his face. "Good to see you again! You showing all those artistes up in Boston how it's really done?" 

"I am when I'm not serving them café lattes. Being a barista helps pay the tuition bills."

"That shows some real spirit there, Jane-o! You came back just in time for some spaghetti al la carbonara! That was your favorite, right?" 

"Mr. Morgendorffer, I'll be happy to have anything that wasn't thawed in the microwave."

After dinner (not one of Jake's better-fated culinary experiments) the whole night stretched before them, the two falling back into the old routines that had served them so well all through adolescence. Talking to Jane always carried a unique quality, a private and insular experience with someone who understood most every reference Daria might make and return it in kind, each word unlocking another layer of shared knowledge. Between conversation, Scrabble games, and watching _Sick, Sad World_ the hours wore on into the early morning when they at last went to sleep. 

Waking late, they ate quick breakfasts and made the trek to Jane's old house. As she followed the familiar route, each step taken a hundred times before, Daria thought back to all the time she used to spend in her one real shelter.

_A shelter you almost destroyed—no, don't think about that. Aside from that one summer you were always friends._

"How's Trent?" 

"He's with some new band called the Gloombugs or something. Don't ask me where he got the idea for the name—he said it was 'like glowbugs, but reversed'. He seems to be having fun."

The actual state of Jane's old house showed how much damage a few months of neglect could inflict on a structure already stretched to its limit. A tangled carpet of weeds covered the lawn and scraggly moss grew in patches on Amanda's abstract metal sculpture.

"Looks about right," Jane sighed. "Probably not much point in going inside, but since I'm here..." 

Jane strode up to the front, fiddling a bit with the keys before opening the door. Daria's jaw dropped upon seeing the interior, where mold and wildflowers burst from the tattered wallpaper to spill out onto the carpet. Broken-down furniture too heavy to easily move or steal sagged under nature's assault. An awful mildew smell choked the air.

"Oh my God," Daria uttered.

"Yeah, can't say I'm surprised." Resignation tinged Jane's voice

"What about your art?"

"Don't worry, I took most of my work with me."

"Most of?"

"Trent brought some down to D.C. with him. Come on, I don't think we need to see the rest of the house," Jane said.

"Maybe the other rooms are in better condition."

"Even if they are, the place is a wreck." 

"Well, if you need help getting it back into shape, I'll be in town for a while longer," Daria offered. "It can't be any tougher than teaching Kevin."

Jane gave Daria a quizzical look. "Get the place back into shape? Daria, this house is well past that point."

"Aren't your parents going to at least make an attempt?"

"Who knows? Mom's still teaching at a hippie commune out west, and I'm not even sure where dad is right now. I just hope they get me that stipend they promised. Besides, I have my own loft, which you still haven't seen! It's cramped, dreary, shared with weirdoes, and in a sketchy neighborhood. What else could an artist want?" 

"Another house never hurts."

"That's for when I sell out and become famous. Right now I'm still in the starving artist stage. Come on, let's get out of here. You know, once you get back up to Boston you need to actually visit my place. You'd love it, it's like something out of a Poe story." 

Daria stood in the darkness for a few more moments longer as Jane made her exit. At last, with slow steps, she followed her friend outside.


	11. Chapter 11

Jane started the long trip north at noon on Sunday, leaving Daria with a week and a month left in Lawndale. Daria watched her friend drive away, and wondered if they'd ever both be back in the old town.

Eight different students demanded Daria's attention by that point, her once lackadaisical schedule suddenly quite busy. Though no one needed as much help as Kevin she still spent time making lesson plans specific to their needs. Tedious, it kept her mind working on something other than her own private anxieties.

She didn't know how well she really taught any of them. Some already basically understood the material and only needed a bit of guidance; they'd have likely earned decent grades without her help. Others struggled with the very concepts and she'd drive herself half-mad trying to explain.

The latter category didn't always benefit from her help. The one known as Sebastian (or more specifically, his parents) hired her to help him get a passing grade in physics. He fired her after he failed the test, relaying his displeasure through a clumsy and obscenity-laden message left on the Morgendorffer answering machine.

She did try. Just like she'd done when writing Patricia's papers, Daria fulfilled her end of the bargain. She tried to understand the more recalcitrant students, asking them questions about what they liked and framing the lesson to fit those interests. Most of them still stumbled when it came time for exams, making her wonder how much she'd really be able to help Kevin. She'd reduced her rates to $15 an hour in a state of such doubt.

Kevin called in to cancel his next lesson, citing "family stuff" and sounding despondent. She didn't press him for more information. He'd taken the history test on Tuesday, so she suspected she already knew the real reason.

Daria took advantage of the rare free afternoon to hide away in the library until closing, reading choice selections from _The Portrait of a Lady_ , Henry James' prose as familiar as an old friend.

Saturday took her to the home of one Jenna Lyndon, a smart and math-oriented student who only found difficulty in trying to understand Mr. O'Neill's muddied interpretation of Shakespeare's _King Lear_. Jenna probably didn't need the help, but her money (rather, her parents' money) always felt earned.

A flash of bright yellow caught Daria's attention as she drove past the high school's football field on the way home. She took a quick side-glance and saw Kevin out on the field, facing the endzone with his right arm prepped for another winning throw, a bunch of footballs already scattered on the grass past the goal. His sheer focus and single-minded dedication at that moment made the entire scene picture perfect for some motivational poster.

Unless you knew the context.

Taking a left turn into the parking lot, Daria exited the car and walked across the field, not sure what to say. She came to a stop at the bleachers and sat down just as a spinning football soared over the goal line.

Kevin didn't take any notice, instead reaching into the all but empty yellow duffel bag at his feet and drawing out yet another football. He stepped back, judged the distance for a few long moments, and threw again. The ball spun high through the air, recalling his old glories for one golden moment before it hit the grass.

Kevin let his arms hang loose and walked towards the bleachers.

"Hey, Daria," he said, without looking at her.

"Hey."

He rested on the bottom bench and gazed out onto the road, looking almost thoughtful.

"I'm guessing the history test didn't go so well," she finally said.

"Mr. D gave me a D+. Which I thought was pretty good, but then he told me that I'd still need to ace the final in order to pass."

"What did you do on the test? I could take a look at it."

"Ah, I don't have it with me. It's just that, after what you taught me, I figured I'd explain my story. You know, the one with Coach Gibson, and how we partied even though he told us not to? It's funny. Mr. D actually said I did a good job explaining stuff in the beginning, but he didn't like me talking about the party after the Renson game for two pages."

"The test's about history, Kevin, not your personal life." She'd have once rolled her eyes at his explanation. This time, it simply added another layer of shared disappointment to the proceedings.

"Huh, he said the same thing."

"Sorry. I guess I misled you."

"It's better than the last grade I got. I'll probably have to do another year here. Practice makes perfect, you know? God, I'm gonna be like 20 when I graduate." He shook his head.

"College is pretty cool, huh?" he asked, brightening up. "Like I saw this documentary once about how college kids go to frat parties all the time, and it's like way bigger and better than what you see here! Maybe I can still see that. You must have been having fun, until your brain fever. Sorry about that, by the way."

"Actually, I hate college."

"Really? But isn't it like, where smart people can also party?" he asked.

"Do you really ever imagine me partying?"

"I guess not." Kevin's brow furrowed. "So what do you do? You can't study all the time."

"Studying is the only time I do anything. Outside of that, it's nothing," she admitted.

"That sucks."

"I never thought I'd say this, but I miss high school." 

"Yeah, I miss it too. Well, I'm still in it, but I miss the old days. Back then everyone wanted to be my friend, even people like you! We had some pretty good times together, right?"

"Um, sure. We sure did," Daria said, not making any real attempt to sound convincing.

"I guess those days aren't coming back though."

"No. They aren't."

Daria thought back to the handful of football games she'd actually attended, when what seemed like the entire town flocked to the field bright under the floodlights. The memory of the noise and the packed bodies only gave her a headache—she missed high school, but she hadn't liked it either.

"Kevin, how did you learn how to play football?"

"Huh? Oh, my dad taught me. We played all the time when I was a kid."

"The rules are pretty complicated."

"No they aren't! Come on, you can't tell me you don't know the rules? Everyone knows them," he said, sounding almost insistent.

"I know the rules, but I wouldn't call them simple. How did you learn them?"

"A lot of practice. When you're out on the field like that, you learn pretty fast, I guess."

"If you know the rules to football, why not facts about history?" she asked.

"Yeah, but you have to read stuff and write them down. Believe me, Daria, when you see a two-hundred pound linebacker running towards you, you know what's going on pretty quick!"

"I can see how that would be the case," she said, the beginnings of an idea forming in her mind. "Do you still want me to tutor you? I understand if you don't."

"I guess I'll keep going. It's more practice."

"I won't charge you."

"Come on, Daria, it's my mom's money."

"She can pay me if you pass your classes. I'll teach for free until then. But don't tell anyone else about this arrangement."

"Sure! I still don't get why you want to teach for free."

"Maybe I just want to see someone learn," she said.

"Huh?"

"Don't worry about it. See you on Wednesday."

"Yeah, see you."


	12. Chapter 12

_Earlier…_

Daria measured the month of February in cups of metallic instant coffee: one to rouse her from sleep, another to keep going through class until she got back to the dorm, and a third for when she threw together another meager essay or lab report. Time spooled out to create an eternally hazy present.

Going back home over Christmas break nurtured a faint hope that Patricia might find an apartment, or a different school, or perhaps even discover religion and join a Carmelite convent in the Andes. Patricia herself disabused Daria of this notion, and sent a chipper email in early January to wish her a pleasant vacation and enthuse about again sharing their dorm when the next semester began.

"PS Daria, I know we got off on the wrong foot. We are living with each other though, so we might as well make it pleasant, right?"

Solitude made it pleasant, or at least tolerable. By her count she'd never said more than a few words to Patricia since returning, the latter's busy schedule making this easier than anticipated. Refusing to write Patricia's assignments accomplished nothing. Plenty of others lined up to help where Daria had stopped, which at least served to keep Patricia partying and out of the dorm. 

Jane's presence alleviated some of the boredom. Busy almost 24/7 with her own innumerable projects she still exuded a boundless energy during their weekly get-togethers at Espresso Express, a café located at a roughly equal distance between their two campuses. Her descriptions turned the studios and students of BFAC into a wealth of stories, even the minutest occurrence the beginnings of an adventure in the making.

 _I really should visit her place_ , Daria thought, lying in bed towards the end of another cold day.

Daria never added much to these conversations, snarky observations about life in Raft dying out in her throat. She sensed herself as a leaden weight, an unwanted remainder of the old days at Lawndale. Secure in her bare dorm room, she at least didn't have to worry about that.

Daria ignored the unexpected knock at her door. Patricia's friends could go find their idol elsewhere. The visitor knocked again with more urgency.

"I have something for Patricia! It's super-important that she gets this!"

"Oh, well if it's super-important." Getting out of bed she opened the door just a bit and studied the visitor, a reedy boy whose greasy yellow hair hung in ragged curtains on either side of his sharp face.

"Patricia isn't here, and I'm trying to sleep."

"Uh, okay. Just make sure that she gets this!" His words tumbled over each other in the race to escape his mouth. He pushed open the door and shoved a stapled packet into Daria's hands. 

"What is—"

"That's the essay I wrote for her. Er, I mean, I didn't like write it you know, but I, uh, proofread it."

She glanced down at the text without reading it. "Yes, I can see that this paper has the distinct stream-of-consciousness style that marks it as a work of Patricia's."

"Hey, can I give you my email? Can you let me know what she thinks of it?"

Daria shut the door on him. He rapped on the surface again before giving up, his footsteps dull thuds on the hallway's dirty wooden floor. She just about put the paper on Patricia's desk before deciding to take a closer look.

"… and thats why Dimmesdale represents original sin."

The typo prompted her to read more. One minute and a dozen errors later found Daria glowing with a feverish smile, her shoulders shaking with joyless mirth.

"… because Dimmesdale and Hester had had sexual relations and the Puritans disapprove it shows the hypocrisy of the town. This was Hawthorne's point when it came to Puritans. Because they made a big deal about original sin and punished people for it but also believed in forgiveness and didn't practice forgiveness the punishment of Dimesdale and Hester made them hypocrites. The Puritans should have forgiven them."

Confused syntax, run-on sentences, and a shaky understanding of the text combined to create a perfect train wreck of an essay.

"Patricia, I'd say you should rely on your own work but I'm pretty sure that this dross is still better than anything you could write," she said as she tossed the essay on the desk and went back to sleep.

Daria relished the anticipation of Patricia's disastrous grade. Desperation might even lead her to hire Daria a second time, an offer that she could turn down with a resounding and very satisfying "No". Maybe Patricia thought she could easily find someone else, but the sheer cluelessness found in Raft's student body might well put Lawndale High to shame.

_I've written better essays in middle school._

A curious energy carried her through the next few days, her eyes flashing open each time she heard someone at the door. Daria waited to see Patricia in a panic over her grades. She even rifled through Patricia's backpack, hunting for an essay that bled red ink.

Patricia returned to the dorm early on Friday evening, as cheerful as ever and ready for all the night's parties. Her eyes met Daria's for one discomfiting movement as she entered.

"Hi!" Patricia said, sugar-coating her voice with false cheer.

Daria mumbled a greeting from her bed, blankets up to her chin and waiting for some sign of distress.

_Considering how damned lazy the professors here are, I'll be lucky to find out before the end of the semester._

"I'm going out with some friends. Had another good day at school. You should try having a good day sometime."

"Unlike you, I can have the time of my life without depending on bunch of inebriated morons."

Patricia just shook her head. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you. I don't even want to know, at this rate."

"What did you get on your Scarlet Letter essay?" Daria asked.

"Huh?"

"That greasy-looking fan of yours seemed really keen on making sure he did a good job. How much are you paying him? Or are you promising something else?" 

"Are you spying on me?"

"I didn't need to. How do you think it got on your desk? He came right up here, eager as a puppy, and shoved the essay in my hands. Three pages, hundreds of typos, and a few malapropisms for good measure."

"What are you saying? Did you try to make the essay bad, or something?" Shock crept into Patricia's voice.

"Any effort on my part would be redundant. What grade did you get?" Daria demanded.

"The essay got a B." 

"Trying to brighten up your ho-hum life with a little illusion, huh? I don't think any teacher would give that a B."

"See for yourself." 

Patricia tore open her backpack and tore out the essay. She stepped forward as if to hand the paper over and suddenly threw it. Daria watched it land next to her bed, her heart hammering in her chest as she reached down, already imagining the professor's dismissive and hopefully disappointed comments scrawled all over the text.

"B, a solid effort but watch out for technical errors," it read, the ink green instead of red.

Daria froze, reading it over and over again.

"Did you try to change my essay?"

"No," Daria whispered.

"I guess it didn't matter even if you did. Like I said, no one really cares about grades, except you, apparently. You did change it didn't you!" Patricia shouted.

"No."

"I can't live here anymore. Don't worry, after this weekend you'll never have your precious beauty sleep or whatever interrupted by the real world!"

Patricia stormed out while Daria read the essay again and again. Unchanged from the draft given to her, the professor had glossed over the mistakes and the awkward sentences. Was Patricia bribing him, too? 

She got to her feet, the dorm room's bare walls distant. 

All at once the anger hit her, pouring through every vein and artery, a red-hot wall around her mind. Tossing the essay to the side she grabbed Patricia's cutesy alarm clock and hurled it at the still-open door. The clock flew right through, slamming into the wall with enough force to pop open the battery case. Plastic fragments tumbling to the ground.

"Whoa!" came a cry from the hallway.

Daria barely noticed the exclamation, but she did see the RA's shocked face looking into her room a moment later. 

"Ms. Morgendorffer, what the hell was that? Are you okay?" she demanded, eyes wide.

Daria didn't answer. She marched out into the hall, past other shocked students and right out of the building. The cold late winter air seemed to freeze around her, socked feet instantly soaked in the gray slush covering campus. Not yet noticing the cold she threw herself down on the nearest bench, taking in deep breaths, waiting for the world to settle and for campus security to arrive.


	13. Chapter 13

Kevin's explanation of how he learned football stayed with Daria and she spent the weekend turning it over in her mind. Assuming he did learn better through action, how to set up such action? Combining it with football carried the real risk of him again confusing the two.

His remedial history class devoted its final exam to an overview of the American Revolution: everything studied up to that point in addition to the revolution itself and the Constitutional Convention. Math presented an even bigger problem. How exactly did one make long division "real"?

The days heated up, a promise of the miserable summer that inched ever closer. The lack of time served to embolden Daria. Clearly, the old methods never worked, so she might as well try something new.

With math she tried using objects (paperclips) to make the process less abstract. The whole effort felt like something out of elementary school—part of her wanted to reward Kevin with a juice break and a Raffi song.

Even this fell short. After practicing with the clips he'd still flounder when actually confronted with a question on paper, his eyes always turning back to his favored learning aids. Daria explained the 10% rule a dozen times over, but it never stuck. She simplified the language, made the problems easier.

He improved in tiny, halting increments. Daria insisted that he spend time practicing at home every day. So far as she could tell, he lived up to his word. He attacked the problems with a sort of dogged weariness, stumbling through to get maybe half right in any set of questions. A solid F, in other words.

History offered more opportunities. While math existed in the realm of the abstract, history consisted of actual, physical events. Events that, if he had the opportunity to participate in them, might stay even in his mind.

Guided by desperation as much as inspiration she adapted and simplified a dozen online lesson plans, rewriting texts and adding pictures. When not at the computer she rummaged through the basement to pick and sort through dusty clothes and old ornaments, and at one point made an embarrassing trip to the local thrift shop. She never paused to let herself examine the situation in too much detail lest the sheer absurdity overwhelm her.

She saw Kevin's car pull up to the curb on a muggy Friday afternoon, the thick air pressing down on the world. Daria closed her eyes, her energy devoted to not fainting from sheer embarrassment.

Yet she almost did just that upon opening the door. Kevin jumped back in surprise when he saw her. Still able to maintain composure, she stood there slowly broiling in one of Helen's old red coats, a white ponytailed wig and toy crown perched on her scalp and threatening to slip off. A dubious picture of royal might.

"Uh, Daria? Are you okay?" He looked ready to bolt.

"As a colonial subject, you will refer to us as King George III."  _Dammit, I forgot the British accent._ Daria hoped she didn't blush too brightly as she spoke.

"Okay. King George III, are you okay?" Kevin began to really look panicked.

"Kevin, you said that you learned football by actually playing it. That seeing a linebacker charging in your direction made it real. Today, we're going to make the American Revolution real."


	14. Chapter 14

A bemused Kevin looked back and forth between Daria and the pile of cinderblocks stacked up on one side of the yard. From her seat, she closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to think of how absurd it all looked.

"Kevin, you understand what's going on here, right?"

"I think so. You're, uh, trying to make it real for me."

"Correct."

"But if it's real, really real, you know, shouldn't you have to be like a British king or something? Like in real life?" he asked.

"Do you know where we can find a time machine to go back to the Colonial Era?"

"Huh?"

"What I mean to say is, this is as real as I can make it. You also need to remember that you can't spend your essay talking about football, what we did here, or anything other than history. Focus," she ordered.

"Uh, sure."

"As a subject of the British Crown in the New World, you are hereby expected to begin earning your keep. There is much work to be done, and very little time with which to do it. You are required to move those cinderblocks over to the side gate." She enunciated every word in a voice she hoped sounded convincingly British. Fear of the neighbors overhearing moved her to keep a quiet tone.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

Kevin shrugged and grabbed two cinderblocks. He marched them over to their destination and whistled a cheerful tune.

_Let's see how cheerful you are at the end of this._

Minutes dragged by. Daria's scalp poured sweat as it suffocated under the weight of the wig and phony crown. Kevin continued his labor, not flagging under the strain.

 _Did I underestimate him?_ she wondered. While working, he still looked more energetic than she felt. _If nothing else, this matches up nicely with the narrative of rugged colonials and effete Englanders._

He'd just barely broken a sweat after transporting all fifteen of the cinderblocks. Turning to her, he grinned and pointed a thumb at the pile.

"Ta da!"

"Adequate. You must now pay your taxes for the services that your government provides. It is we who own this land, after all." 

"Um, taxes?"

"One dollar."

"I thought you said you teaching me for free." Kevin frowned.

"Focus!"

"Oh, yeah." He handed her a dollar, which she placed in a tin cup resting on an arm of the chair.

"Very well. Now, move those cinderblocks to the center of the yard."

"Huh? Didn't I just move them?"

"Do your work."

He labored with less alacrity that time. Though not visibly straining he no longer seemed so casual about it. He wiped his brow when finished.

"Adequate. You must now pay another dollar."

"Shouldn't you be, uh, paying me? I mean, no offense, it's just that I'm doing all the work here." An edge crept into Kevin's voice.

"You are subject to the laws of Parliament. Pay your taxes."

"Aw, man," he grumbled, reaching into his pocket and putting another bill into the cup. "Could I get some water or something? I'm really thirsty." 

She handed him a water bottle and he greedily drank it.

"Once you are done using our resources, you may proceed moving the cinderblocks to a third location."

"What? Come on, I just did that!"

"You are a subject of Great Britain. You are expected to follow orders."

He stalked over and again proceeded to move them, his irritation visible. She'd hardly ever seen him angry before.

_Be honest, Daria. Are you doing this just to mess with him?_

She inwardly flinched at the thought. How would she really know, after all?

 _You're putting a lot of effort into this. Then again, so is he._  

She'd wanted Kevin to come to the conclusion on his own, but she resolved not to make him carry blocks a fourth time. He probably learned by doing; though he'd sort of understood why the colonists rebelled, it still remained unreal to him. Daria hoped this exercise changed that.

Seeing his face set in frustration, she wondered if it'd be wise to reenact the Battle of Yorktown with him.

Finishing for the third time, he automatically reached into his pocket and took out a dollar, marching over to her makeshift throne.

"You know, I don't think this is cool. If I'm doing all the work, you should pay me!"

"The tax has gone up to two dollars." Daria hoped she wasn't pushing her luck too far.

"What? After all that?"

"Again, this is our land, not yours. You have also consumed our drink."

"No way! I'm not doing this anymore."

"And neither would the colonists," she said, hurriedly returning to her normal voice and praying he'd pick up on the difference.

"Yeah! It's not fair for us to work all the time and have to pay our bosses! That's now how it works!"

"Kevin, calm down! You learned the lesson."

"I did?" 

"You experienced it. You saw firsthand why the colonists got so frustrated."

"Oh. Hey, I did!"

"Come on, let's go inside and out of this heat." She returned his money and took off the crown and the wig. 

Daria stood up and nearly fell down again, her coat soaked through with sweat. After getting her bearings, she led Kevin back to the dining room table, on which lay a document outlining the fundamental tenets of Thomas Paine's _Common Sense_ , right next to some donuts reserved for her hard-working colonial subject.


	15. Chapter 15

They continued in this vein for the rest of the month. Kevin lived the American Revolution as best as one could within the bounds of suburbia. He read excerpts from key documents, applied his football tactics to the fields of Bunker Hill and Saratoga, and experienced the limitations of the Articles of Confederation.

Daria still wondered how well he truly understood the facts. She took pains to ensure that he didn't confuse the tutoring sessions with the actual historical events, never quite sure if she succeeded. 

No such solution appeared for Kevin's difficulties with math. He usually struggled through the problems she gave him, though it took him more time than even the most forgiving exam would allow. He claimed to practice and she believed him.

Daria almost forgot about college, and was caught off guard when the calendar turned to the month of June. Her mom, true to her nature, kept a closer watch on time. Helen approached her daughter as she ate a late breakfast, holding a scone while sketching out a lesson plan with her free hand.

"Daria, it's almost time for you to go back to Raft. Do you feel ready for it?"

She didn't say anything at first, thinking back on her experiences at the college. Only Jane (and, in a weird way, Patricia) knew the full story behind her breakdown. She'd given her family about half of the truth, and she knew that they detected an omission.

"I guess. It's not like I have an option."

"We were all very worried about you when Raft called us," Helen said.

"A mental breakdown is practically a rite of passage these days." Daria didn't really feel like discussing it again. True to form, Helen brushed off the joke and kept at it.

"I'm serious."

"I'll be fine."

"Do you want to go back?" Helen asked.

"No. That doesn't really matter though, does it? The world is what it is, and at a certain point you just have to adapt."

"I wish that weren't the case, but it often is. That doesn't mean you can't change it though. Make it work for you in some way. I think you've been doing a wonderful job of that with Kevin and all the other students you're helping."

"You should save your praise for when they actually graduate. If they graduate," Daria said.

"It still shows a lot of effort and investment on your part. I can't imagine you doing this even last year. You've grown up a lot."

Daria blushed at the compliment. "Right. Thanks."

Raft's summer session began before the end of Lawndale's school year. Daria had no choice but to leave Kevin with two weeks on his own before finals. He took the news in stride, expressing a vague optimism.

"I think I really got it this time, Daria. I'll be able get through these remedial classes. You're a pretty good coach!" 

On her last night she again wandered around town on her own, trying to fix each sight in memory. The past opened up, the details vivid and reaching out to touch the present as she walked the familiar streets. An eternity in three short years. 

Daria's parents drove her back up to Raft on a day flushed with summer's heat. Jane waited on the other end to help her move into a university-owned apartment a mile away from campus, simple but spacious compared to her old dorm.

She eased herself back into the rhythms of school life, classes accelerated for the summer but still just as dull. The tiresome lectures and assignments hurt a bit less. Daria didn't mind her new roommate, a heavyset blonde girl named Cheryl who majored in business. Cheerful and focused, Cheryl usually kept to her own life, encounters between the two best described as civil bordering on friendly.

Lawndale and the fates of her students occupied her mind, Kevin in particular. All the past months sped by in her mind like some clichéd montage, yet she remembered every ounce of effort put into those lessons. She'd given Kevin her number, telling him to call her if he needed any help. Daria's phone stayed silent, and she hoped that presented a good sign.

Daria at last readied herself to visit Jane's place on the Friday of her second week back in Boston. The entire city boiled under the sun. Daria's phone rang, and she pressed the talk button without looking at the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Kevin spoke, his tone neutral.

"Oh! Did you finish your finals? How did you do?" The world froze around her, her heart still in expectation.

"Um, well." She heard a heavy sigh. "Didn't turn out so good. I failed math, English, and some other classes."

"What? I thought you said you had English under control? It was Mr. O'Neill, wasn't it?" She wanted to smack her old English teacher.

"Mr. O kept telling me I was doing a good job, but I guess he wanted me to do better or something? I dunno. But I got a B in the history final!"

"You needed an A," she said.

"Yeah. You know what, though? Mr. D said I'd done better than he'd ever seen me do before! I mean, you know how he likes to give people a hard time, but he really meant it. I think."

"Maybe you can appeal the grades? You did a lot better than normal, maybe that's enough—"

"It's okay, Daria. Mr. D said he'd find some kind of special program for me. What did he call it? Jee-dee?"

"GED?"

"Yeah, that's it! He's working on something. Maybe I haven't really graduated yet, but I won't have to spend a sixth year at Lawndale," Kevin said, sounding for all the world like he'd won the Heisman trophy.

"God. I'm sorry, Kevin. I really thought that I—"

_Am I tearing up?_

"Aw, it's okay. I always land on my feet. Besides, Mr. D said I'd learned a lot. That's 'cause of you."

"I wanted you to pass." She wiped the tears from her eyes.

 _This is embarrassing_ , she fumed to herself, trying to keep her voice from breaking. "It's not your fault, Kevin."

"I know. I'm still a great quarterback. I'll be okay. You liking college more this time?" he asked.

"I guess. Seems like more of the same." 

"Yeah, school always is. Anyway, things are gonna get better for me. For you, too. Talk to you later!"

"Bye."

She hung up. Her suddenly nerveless body collapsed on the couch. The disaster made sense in retrospect. _Of course_ he'd never really get math in time. _Of course_ Mr. O'Neill would just confuse Kevin with a lot of upbeat hot air. _Of course_ her efforts would be too little, too late.

For all that, he'd learned something. She'd seen it in their last lessons. God only knew if he'd remember it by the end of the month, but for a little while, Kevin knew. He'd go out into the world without a college degree, without any real job prospects, and always with a smile on his face.

Forcing herself up off the couch, Daria walked to nearest window and looked out at the city, the smoggy air all sticky in the summer heat. The sight didn't inspire much optimism. Neither did the thought of more dreary classes.

Daria shouldered her backpack and started on the trip to Jane's loft.

The End


End file.
